


The Monster At The End Of The Hall

by MittenWraith



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Castiel Is So Done, Dean is In Over His Head, Fluff, Human Castiel, Humor, M/M, POV Castiel, Writer Castiel, a terrifyingly realistic depiction of a writer on a deadline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4606851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MittenWraith/pseuds/MittenWraith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is running out of time to finish the edits on his latest novel. His editor may as well be the devil himself, and Cas's whole career is riding on a successful sequel to his bestselling debut novel. He's already worn himself so thin on every frazzled writer's diet of coffee, coffee, and more coffee that he barely even knows what day it is anymore. And then his new neighbors have the audacity to raise holy hell while moving in. He's beginning to wonder if he'll ever have another moment's peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Monster At The End Of The Hall

**Author's Note:**

> *sigh* Again, a prompt stolen from the lovely [Lizbob](http://elizabethrobertajones.tumblr.com). But at least this one was specifically requested. :)

Cas has spent the last few days holed up in his ground-floor apartment with a deadline looming. He’s got five days left to submit the revisions on his current novel. He’d lived there for years, and it’s always been quiet and peaceful in the small, four unit building. His office windows look out over a small garden with a picturesque duck pond, and an expansive forest beyond that. Aside from the occasional impromptu quacking session by the resident ducks, which tends to bring a smile to his face anyway, he’s never had a complaint about the noise levels.

Cas has spent his time since receiving his editor’s notes in a caffeine haze. He’s not sure when he ate last, other than grazing his way through his stash of emergency candy or making a couple of slices of toast while waiting for his next pot of coffee to brew. He’s sure that, other than a few unscheduled caffeine crash naps on his desk, he hasn’t had more than a few hours of sleep in days. He knows it’s no way to work effectively, but he’s so anxious for his next book to live up to the hype his publishing company’s been generating around it after his last bestselling novel was released nearly a year ago. His whole career is riding on his ability to produce an equally popular sequel.

And then it begins.

Just after dawn, a huge truck rolls to a stop outside the building, and the shouting ensues. Rather than eventually moving on, as trucks in his neighborhood typically do, this one parks and the driver leaves it idling while he and his companions begin some sort of yelled negotiations over the roaring drone of the truck’s poorly tuned diesel engine. A few minutes later, the truck’s noise is nearly doubled when another, equally loud vehicle rolls up behind it. Cas squints menacingly at his clock and wonders who could be rude enough to blast AC/DC loud enough to wake the dead at 8:30 in the morning. _On a Sunday._ At least, he’s pretty sure it’s Sunday. He hasn’t been getting much sleep lately.

He sighs, figures it’s time for a breakfast break anyway, and shuffles off to the kitchen for another round of toast and coffee. Cas’s only hope is that the infernal truck and its infernal occupants are gone by the time he’s finished eating. He has so much work to do.

By the time he’s dispatched another slice of toast with honey and poured himself yet another cup of coffee, the music and engine noises have mercifully ceased.

He’s about to get back to work when there’s a tremendous  _THUD_ in the stairway outside his door. There’s only four apartments in the building, two on each floor, so he knows all his neighbors pretty well. He’s momentarily concerned that old Mrs. Gallagher who lives upstairs tripped and fell down the stairs just outside his door. That is, until the thud is immediately followed by a gruff male voice swearing up a storm. He wonders if Mrs. G finally gave up on trying to keep her old dishwasher running properly and ordered a new one, and the strange cacophony of noises interrupting his morning is the crew hired to install it for her. It seems the most likely scenario. If he weren’t still wearing the pajamas he’d put on yesterday (or the day before, he really can’t recall), and didn’t look like he’d just wandered into town after crawling through the desert for a few days, he’d probably go out and make sure Mrs. G didn’t need any assistance.

Cas rubs his hands briskly over his face in a vain effort to perk himself up enough to focus on his notes. He absently notes that it’s probably been at least three days since he’s shaved, and can’t even imagine what his hair must look like after days of running his fingers through it in frustration. Just as he picks up his full-to-the-rim mug of hot coffee, there’s another loud crash out in the hall, and he narrowly escapes dumping the contents of his cup all over his laptop and notes. He saves the day by instead pouring it all over his lap. He cries out in pain just as a rumble of thundering feet and shouting voices converges right outside his door. Cas doesn’t even care what’s going on out there anymore, because he’s too busy jumping around and making sure he hasn’t permanently disfigured himself with coffee-related burn scars.

He sighs and gives up in defeat. If he’s not going to have any peace any time soon, it’s as good a time as any to shower and change, seeing as how his most comfortable jammies are soaked with coffee anyway.

Half an hour later, refreshed from his shower and dressed in his second most comfortable jammies (while his freshly-washed most comfortable jammies are tumbling through the dryer achieving optimum levels of Spring Freshness, as promised by his fabric softener), he decides to risk another cup of coffee.

Cas doesn’t even make it to the kitchen before the banging noises start up again. This time, though, they’re clearly coming from the apartment directly above his, which has been vacant since he’d moved in nearly a year ago. So, not Mrs. G. and her new dishwasher, then. He groans, wondering if it might be time to move again, since his new neighbors have been nothing but rude. And noisy. Don’t they know it’s Sunday morning?

Cas frowns and checks the calendar. He’s appalled to learn that it is, in fact, Tuesday. Perhaps he should cut the new neighbors some slack. Maybe they don’t even know he’s home, although it seems unlikely they didn’t hear him scream when he spilled his coffee. Then again, they were certainly making enough of their own noise to drown out his solitary yelp.

He immediately reminds himself that it is, in fact, _Tuesday_ , which means he only has _three_ days left to finish his revisions, and not five. In a rather desperate move, Cas returns to his desk with his coffee and forces himself to concentrate through whatever obnoxious noises the new upstairs neighbors might make.

Between the thumping and stomping, the yelling and laughing, there might as well be a dance party going on upstairs. What started as a tiny pinch behind his eyes quickly grows into a full-blown headache as Cas focuses on his revisions. He knows he needs sleep and a decent meal, but he’s so close to finished now he can almost taste it. Of course, that’s when the people upstairs apparently decide to start reading his mind about the dance party thing, and the music starts playing at top volume. The stomping continues unabated, and their yelling only gets louder so they can hear each other over the stereo system.

Just before noon, after four hours of putting up with the increasingly infuriating noise levels, Cas begins to wonder if the eye-twitch he’s developed could be permanent. He absently considers whether he should see a doctor about it, or if possibly it’s an early symptom of a stress-induced stroke. Then he wonders if a stress-induced stroke is a real thing, and if his heart palpitations are due to worry over giving himself one or just a product of the obscene amounts of coffee he’s been pouring into himself for the last few days. At least his five minutes of absolute dread distract him from the rude people who’ve stomped upstairs to ruin his life from above.

Cas is about ready to cry at this point. He’s been stuck on the same editorial note for the last hour, unable to even think over the cacophony coming from both the stairwell outside his door and the normally silent ceiling of his own apartment. He just sits there, staring up at it resentfully. He’d considered taking a short nap until everything quieted down, but he’s pretty sure his blood’s at least eighty percent coffee at this point, and he knows he’d never be able to sleep with that racket going on regardless of his blood caffeine levels. He’s about to give the situation up as hopeless when there’s a knock on the door. He briefly wonders if the neighbors figured out how rude they were being and had come to make some sort of peace offering. Or at least offer an apology. _It would’ve been nicer if they’d considered turning off the music first_ , he thinks uncharitably as he drags himself to the door.

Out in the tiny hallway is the first welcome thing that’s happened to him all day. His editor might be a veritable demon when it comes to his notes, but he knows how to keep Cas on task: regular deliveries from the bakery down the street. He groans with relief when he sees the box, knowing immediately it’s his favorite cherry pie, fresh out of the oven by the smell of it. He’s so overcome, he just stands there in the hall with his eyes closed to better enjoy the aroma wafting out of the box. The delivery man had already gone, but Cas was transported by this one perfect moment in his otherwise hellish day.

Of course it’s cut short by another loud thump, made infinitely more grating by the fact it happens mere feet from where he stood reveling in his moment of bliss.

“Dude! Is that pie?” comes a voice adjacent to the latest disruption to his day.

Cas slowly opens his eyes, and turns to glare at the man who must’ve been responsible for the incessant barrage of noise he’d been subjected to all day long. He must look even more frazzled and bedraggled than he feared, because the man immediately begins apologizing.

“Shit, man, have you been home all morning?” the man asks, his attention finally diverted from the bakery box and focused on the look of absolute loathing Cas knows he's wearing. “Shit. The landlord said everyone else in the building would be at work this morning, or we would’ve tried to keep it down a bit. Did we keep you up, or something?”

The man gestures to Cas’s pajamas and rumpled hair, prompting Cas to take a good look down at himself, before returning his glare to this strange man’s face. His first thought is that the man certainly doesn’t look strange. In fact, aside from the frown, he is one of the most attractive people Cas has ever seen. It seems a shame that he is also insufferably rude. Then again, he also seems to be apologizing...

“I work from home,” Cas grunts out. “I’m on a deadline with my editor, and I haven’t slept in days.”

A look of horror spreads over the man’s face, and even that doesn’t detract from his beauty. His sudden shout of _SAMMY! TURN THE FUCKING MUSIC OFF_ doesn’t do him any favors in Cas’s book, but the near-blissful silence that follows the request certainly does. He sighs in relief, wondering if he might finally be able to finish his work.

“Thank you…”

“Dean,” the man replies, holding out a hand for Cas to shake. Cas shifts the warm pie to his left hand so he can reciprocate. “My brother Sam and his wife Jess are moving in upstairs. If we’d known you were down here, we wouldn’t have been so loud. I’m sorry…”

“Castiel,” Cas replies, still shaking Dean’s hand. Now that they were being civil, he could properly admire the gorgeous green of Dean’s eyes, and observe the magnificent radiance of his smile.

“Castiel?” Dean asks, suddenly looking thoughtful. “And you’re a writer? Castiel… Novak?”

Cas can feel the blush coming over his face, and is grateful he hasn’t bothered shaving in so long as he hopes it provides some camouflage for the blooming color in his cheeks. It’s not often he gets recognized in public. Sure, he’s got a bestseller out there, but it’s not like he’s a movie star or anything like that. He’s just a lonely hermit of a fantasy writer, albeit a rather successful one. He’s not exactly a household name, so it takes him a minute to compose himself before he finally stutters out a reply.

“Yes… yes, that’s right. That’s me.”

Dean grins even wider than before, and shakes his hand a little faster. It finally registers to Cas that yes, _they are still shaking hands_. He wonders if he should feel uncomfortable about that, before Dean goes wide-eyed and starts gushing.

“Oh, man, I loved your book! I’ve read it like six times now. So your deadline means the sequel is finally coming out? That’s the best news I’ve had all week. Damn! Now I feel even worse about ruining your morning. You’ve gotta let me make it up to you. God, I can’t believe it! I’m shaking hands with _The Castiel Novak_. Damn. I was just about to order some pizza. Let me at least buy you lunch, you know, to apologize.”

Cas does his best to keep up with Dean’s rambling narrative, but he does process the words _pizza_ and _apologize_ , and finally manages a smile. Despite the realization that Dean still hasn’t let go of his hand.

“Yes, Dean, thank you. I believe I’d enjoy that,” Cas finally replies.

Dean grins, and finally refocuses on the bakery box in Cas’s left hand. “And, dude! They have pie delivery service in this neighborhood? Because that would be enough to make me want to move here, too.”

Cas glances at the box, and then back to Dean. “My editor has some sort of deal with the bakery down the street. He feels the occasional surprise pie is enough to keep him in my good graces.”

“I like the way he thinks,” Dean jokes.

Cas just sighs. “He’s an evil bastard, but he knows his market."

Dean finally seems to realize he’s still holding on to Cas, and his eyes go wide as he drops his hand. “I, uh. Sorry about that. I’ll be… upstairs. Ordering pizza. Just… why don’t you come on up when you’re ready to eat, and I’ll introduce you to my Sam… uh… my brother. Yeah.”

Dean begins backing up, realizing the dizzying impression he must’ve left his favorite author with, and looking more than a little mortified. He only makes it two steps before tripping over the box he’d dropped at the bottom of the stairs, before he realized how badly he’d ruined Cas’s day. He lands on his ass on the bottom stair, and mutters _yeah I probably deserved that_ , before forcing himself to smile at an incredibly bemused Cas. Dean picks up the box and turns to head up the stairs.

He glances back to see Cas still smiling up at him, and says, “Yeah… just give it a few, and… whenever you’re hungry, you know… yeah.”

“I’ll be up shortly. Thank you again, Dean.”

Amazingly enough, Cas realizes his headache is gone.

He doesn’t get through the rest of his notes that day. After a highly enjoyable meal with his new neighbors, followed by a magnanimous invitation to share his favorite cherry pie with Dean, Dean’s insists that he’ll be able to plow through the rest of his notes in no time flat if he just gets a decent night’s sleep. When Cas asks, Dean is more than happy to stay to ensure he gets it.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I should just surrender now and announce that tumblr prompts are apparently my new thing. :D Please feel free to pester me over there. [mittensmorgul](http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com)


End file.
